


Away Games

by nahco3



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:41:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David Silva adjusts to playing for the national team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Away Games

**Author's Note:**

> written in 2008.

_24 March 2007 - Santiago Bernabéu Stadium – Madrid_

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_Spain vs Denmark, final score 2 – 1_

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As he stands in la Bernabéu, La Marcha Real being pumped through the sound system, David Silva runs his tongue over his dry lips. His palms are sweating, and he tries to surreptitiously wipe them on his shorts, but only succeeds in twisting his shorts uncomfortably. He considers trying to straighten them, but realizes that he'd probably end up with them down around his ankles, so he lets his arms hang at his side.

 

The anthem ends and the players clap and step out of the line. Silva glances up at the crowd and immediately wishes he hadn't; his heart is already pounding and the game hasn't begun. David Villa looks over at him and smirks, or maybe smiles, Silva can never tell. Silva's stomach flips over for the at least the fifth time in the past ten minutes.

 

"Don't worry," David tells him, half shouting over the crowd noise. "You can't be more of a fuck up than Torres. Well, probably not, anyway."

 

Silva gulps. Mori, who's walking by, pats Silva on the shoulder and then the whistle blows.

 

It would be a lie to say he stops being nervous once he touches the ball – after a year of first team football for Valencia he's abandoned the illusion that he will grow accustomed to playing football in front of a crowd larger than ten. But his nerves stop affecting him, if his hands shake, his feet don't, and his feet are all that matter.

 

He sees Mori waiting, looking for the ball, and he doesn’t think – he goes. Around the defender, feigning left and going right, then a quick tap to Mori.

 

The stadium erupts, loud, pulsing noise, screams and chants barely distinguishable in the sheer wall of sound. He's running toward Mori, but someone grabs him first, maybe Joaquin, then Mori and David hit them almost simultaneously. Someone's whispering in his ear, he can't hear what, he can't ear anything, this noise is to be felt, not heard. They separate, sweat and smiles, and David pats him in the back. Not bad, he mouths to Silva. Now do it again.

 

Silva blushes, inexplicably, and ducks his head.

 

Then play starts again, maddeningly fast and frustratingly slow. Just into stoppage time, he hears David calling, "here, here," and slides a pass in before the defense has time to react. He stops to watch David draw the defender sideways, through the box, dancing across and then, without warning, tap the ball into the far corner.

 

Silva is running to him before the ball's hit the net, grabs David (or David grabs him) and it's beautifully, painfully loud. He wraps his arm around David's neck, panting. David smiles, his real smile, his dark eyes glimmering.

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_

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_28 March 2007 - Son Moix - Palma de Mallorca_

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_Spain vs Iceland, final score 1 – 0_

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_

The team is sitting in the dressing room after the match, damp from the showers and changed back into street clothes. Silva's seated (awkwardly) between Cesc and Fernando Torres. Cesc is slouched against the locker, his phone out, texting. Silva glances over at his phone and Cesc says, "Titi," two quick syllables dripping with familiarity. Silva nods and turns away.

 

"You had some good chances," Silva says to Torres, trying to break the silence,

 

Torres sniffs. "I guess." He pauses, then, a little more politely, "You did, too."

 

"Thanks."

 

They fall into silence again, Cesc's vibrating phone the only sound. Silva stares across the dressing room, David and Mori are talking quietly across from him, a few of the Barca players sit together in a corner.

 

Suddenly, Cesc leans next to Silva, making him jump. "You play for Valencia, right?"

 

Torres rolls his eyes. Silva nods.

 

"Is it true that David knifed someone when he lived in Asturias?" Cesc asks, probably louder than he should have.

 

"I…I have no idea," Silva half stutters out. "Why?"

 

"I just heard, that's all," Cesc's voice takes on a conspiratorial tone, without dropping at all. David glances over in their direction. "I mean, have you seen him when he's angry? I bet he could just," Cesc makes a few large, unclear gestures, possibly to illustrate a knife fight, "you know."

 

Silva looks over at David. David looks back, inscrutable as ever, and Silva feels his cheeks get hot. Cesc laughs. "Do you wanna ask him?"

 

Silva stammers out something along the lines of, no, I don't want to offend him and Torres sighs theatrically, before Aragones comes in and everyone goes quiet.

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_

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_06 June 2007 - Rheinpark – Vaduz_

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_Liechtenstein vs Spain, final score 0 -2_

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_ _

The night before the match, after dinner and a tactics meeting, Silva is lying on his hotel bed in the room he's sharing with David, flipping channels in search for something he can understand. David is out on the balcony, talking on his phone. The sounds of his conversation drift back into the room, and Silva turns down the television to listen. Not to eavesdrop, he tells himself, I'm just curious. He can't make out all the words, but he enjoys the sound of David's voice, drifting in through the summer twilight.

 

He shuts his eyes and breaths in, suddenly relaxed and utterly content. His muscles are slightly sore from the day's workout, and the bed is very comfortable. David's laughter comes in through the outside, genuine, soft. It is the laugh Silva doesn't get to hear very often, without a mocking edge, and he revels in it, even if it isn't directed at him.

 

There's a knock on the door, and, with a sigh, Silva rolls off the bed to answer it. Cesc is standing there, mischief written across his face.

 

"ProEvo?" he asks.

 

"No thanks," Silva says, feeling like the little kid whose parents won't let him stay up late. "I think I'll just turn in early."

 

Cesc gives him a look, then smiles without sincerity. "Well, you know where to find me if you change your mind. Good night."

 

Silva walks back to his bed. He's not really tired yet, but he doesn't want to spend the evening listening to Cesc complain at him about Manchester United and god knows what else. He flops down on the bed, and turns his attention back to the TV. He hears David end his conversation and, a few seconds later, reenter the room.

 

"Who was at the door?" David asks, pulling off his polo and throwing it on the floor.

 

"Cesc," Silva replies, as evenly as he can. I won't look, I won't look, I won't look, he thinks. Then he turns his head and stares as David bends down and grabs a book out of his bag. "He wanted to play ProEvo."

 

David turns around and Silva looks down at his hands, clasped together on the sheet.

 

"Oh," David says, voice dripping with contempt. Silva hears David flop onto the bed, and risks a peak. David has started to read, half reclining and facing toward Silva.

 

Silva's eyes follow the curve of his bare shoulder to the line of his torso and curve of his hip before he forces them to stop. He gulps.

 

"Who were you on the phone with?" Silva asks, his voice higher pitched than usual.

 

"My wife," David replies, without looking up. "My daughter just started speaking in complete sentences and I am in Liechtenstein." His tone is dry, but with bite. He looks up at Silva, piercingly. "I imagine this is fun for you, though. ProEvo and all that."

 

Silva gulps again, and tries to say, I don't want to play ProEvo. I want to watch you read and ask you if you've ever knifed anyone and how do you take a free kick like that. I want you to talk to me like you like me, not like you tolerate me.

 

Instead, the persistent part of him, that part of him that wants him to be utterly miserable, the practical part of him asks, "What did you daughter say?"

 

David laughs without humor, and his black eyes flash, flash right through Silva. "She said, 'where's Daddy?'"

 

Then he goes back to his book, and Silva goes back to watching television and watching David.


End file.
